Quod Erat Demonstrandum
by lynxzpanther
Summary: or What Was to Be Demonstrated. Scorpius/Potter, tangle of angst and heartbreak and a little bit of hope shining through, too. One-shot.


_**AN: The cool part about this story is that the main character can be either Al or Lily, so I'd advice that you pick now. =) Because of that things are a little vague, but, well, it was a fun challenge to write a fic that could fit two different people. **_

_**For Val, who kept me writing. Without her, it would have been undoubtedly scrapped. **_

_**Warning: Cheating. Kind of goes against my morals, so I don't like it much, but oh well. **_

_**Dislciamer: I disclaim. ~winky face~ **_

_**Songs used to write this: Stay **_and_** From a Table Away **_and_** Thunder Rolls**_

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><p>The fingers of your left hand skim over smooth, pale skin. Your right hand is twined in soft, pale blond hair. Your insides are a mix of stormy chaos, however, that belies your outward calm: you want to be content here, in this moment, but you can't be, not when you know it will end so soon. Not when you don't know if you'll ever be able to keep him.<p>

He shifts away from you after a few moments, getting up and collecting his clothes. He steps into them slowly, taunting you with the thought that _maybe _he really doesn't want to leave you, but all too soon he's dressed and about to head out the door. "Do you have to leave?" you ask, pushing yourself up and watching him with your whole heart in your eyes. He nods but won't look at you, his eyes focusing on a spot somewhere to the left of you instead. He bites his lip and you know that he wants to say he's sorry, wants to promise you something more, but he stopped doing that long ago. For some reason, you still can't keep yourself from expecting it, hoping for it with every fiber of your being. He turns away and you _want _so much to beg him to _stay, _but you can't. If he left you then, after that, you would completely shatter and never heal.

You aren't a Potter for nothing, however, and you snatch your phone off the bedside table. Your house uses very little magic—you always found Muggle technology more useful—so it works pretty well here. You text Rose to ask her where she's meeting him tonight, the question hidden under a lot of pointless conversation, and you dress up to dine by yourself at the fancy restaurant he's using to woo her this time. You use your name and standing to snag a small table in the corner where you can see _everything _that goes on, but it's hard to notice you. Your corner is full of shadow, your food only lit by the single candle in the center of your table, and you reflect that this meal _could _have been nice.

It would be nice if you weren't watching Scorpius Malfoy walk through the door with his aura of casual grace. He's perfection in fancy dress robes and you _want _him, but there's Rose on his arm. She's all dressed up in a golden colored dress, looking absolutely stunning. Her hair's pulled up and done in curls that make her into a princess. Even with heels she only comes up to his shoulder, but she compliments him well, fire to his ice. You hate her, just a little… or rather, a lot.

She was your best friend throughout all of your life, and you should feel bad about trying to steal her boyfriend away. But hey, he was _yours _first. You're sure of this, because you remember clearly the day that Rosie burst into the Common Room to tell you that he'd asked her out, just _two days _after the first time he kissed you. So you had no official claim on him, but he was _yours _first, so you figure that you both have equal right to chase him.

Besides, Rose has been so caught up in her own love story that she hasn't noticed your slowly shattering heart, and even _James _has approached you a few times out of intrinsic brotherly concern to attempt to fix things. He can't, though; no one can. You watch as he compliments her and makes her laugh. You see the way she lights up and feel a small stab of guilt, but you can also tell that she _doesn't _love him. Puppy love, maybe, but not the kind of love that's been tearing you up inside for over a year now. She doesn't _deserve _him, damn it, so why is he still chasing after her?

You don't leave until long after the happy couple, but you aren't sulking. You're gathering your resolve.

You don't see him for a week, conveniently making sure you're busy whenever he's free. Still, you know that you can't avoid him for more than a week without him noticing, so you let him into your flat.

He bites his lip so cutely when he asks if you've been avoiding him—so he's noticed after all—and you want to kiss it, but _no, _that isn't part of the plan. You simply tell him that yes, you have, and things have to end. He obviously isn't going to leave Rose anytime soon if what you say in the restaurant is anything to go by (Yes, you were there, and yes, you _were _stalking him; does he have a _problem _with that?). You won't let yourself continue to be strung out by a manipulative git that obviously takes pleasure toying with your emotions.

He looks like he wants to cry as you all but shove him out the door, but there's a nasty, bitter understanding in his eyes as well when he tells you a quiet goodbye.

You miss him. You shouldn't miss him, because Scorpius Malfoy fucking _ruined _your life, but you do. Your love for him isn't sensible, but rather like free-falling blindfolded: exhilarating and terrifying. No sensation will ever compare. You're terrified by the idea that you may not ever get over him.

You aren't sleeping well, because whenever you sleep you dream of him, and you wake up crying from the void in your soul that widens every day he's absent from your life. You're afraid that you might cave soon, might go back to him and give up your pride and your standards. Love _shouldn't_ hurt this much, should it? Why isn't it the gift that all those silly stories make it out to be?

You sleep as little as possible, so you're still awake when you hear a knock at your door late one night. It's raining outside, so you consider that maybe it was just a far-off clap of thunder, but no, there it is again. You hesitantly answer the door, aware that you're ridiculously underdressed in your sleeping clothes, but it _is _three-thirty in the morning, so no one can really expect you to look your best. Not that you've been looking your best for ages anyway.

You glance out the window on your way to the door, but all you see is a deserted street lit by intermittent flashes of lightning. The knock comes again and you reluctantly hurry to the door, but you freeze when your phone buzzes. 'Have you seen Scor?' the message reads as you Accio your cell from the bedroom, and you frown, glancing to your door. You open it and do indeed see him standing there. He's dressed in simple jeans and a t-shirt. His hair is plastered down, he's dripping wet, shivering, and so much of you _aches _to warm him up… in as many platonic and non-platonic ways as possible. His eyes are wide and pleading, ringed by puffy red that hints he's been crying, as he begs you to please just listen.

You want to. Oh, Merlin, you _really _want to.

So you slam the door in his face and dive onto your bed, burying your head under the pillow so you can't hear if he knocks or calls out for you. You don't want to know.

You try to pretend you aren't crying. You try to pretend you aren't thinking of him dripping wet and miserable on your doorstep. Eventually, you fall asleep.

You are woken by a loud rapping on your door. The sunlight streaming through the window hurts your head, and you sigh before slowly moving to answer the door. The rapping doesn't stop until it's open, and the first doesn't stop, punching you harshly. You blink at your cousin, listening to her scream about boyfriend-stealers and cheaters and betrayal, and you slam the door in her face once more. You don't know how Rosie found out, and you're sure that you'll be torn up over the loss of her friendship someday, but right now you're too tired to care. It's as if all the sleepless nights have caught up with you at once. You collapse down onto the couch by the door, curl into a ball, and try not to remember all the times he's kissed you as you sat in this very same place. You fall asleep slowly, your face once again wet with never-ceasing tears.

A constant rapping on your door wakes you up once again. It's dusk now, so you're hoping that Rose has long given up, but it might be her. Either way, that noise is annoying. You could plug in headphones, but you're a Gryffindor, aren't you? Gryffindors, especially Potter ones, don't run away from their problems, so you yank the door open with a glare set in your face. "What?" you demand, and your heart jolts when you see Scorpius there. Your stomach flip flops and revolts as your mind tries to yank your unwilling body back under its control, and all the while you glare at him.

"I left her," he tells you. You stare at him; the glare doesn't relent. "I broke up with Rose. For good." He seems to sense your unspoken question—he always had a knack for that, and it's as endearing as it is annoying—and assures you quietly, "_I _broke it off. I told her everything. She… wasn't pleased."

No, she certainly hadn't been. "And? What do you think that changes, Scorpius?" You can't hold up that glare, but it isn't important. You're weary straight through your core; you miss him but can't risk giving him another chance to break your wounded heart. His name still sounds angelic as it leaves your lips, so your love hasn't changed, but neither has your decision.

"Nothing, I suppose," he agrees, ducking his head as if he can't stand to hold your gaze. As if this hurts _him _as much as it's been killing you. It shouldn't hurt you that he gives up so easy, but then, he always gave up on you easily. He always assumed that you'd just be there when he wanted you. You were never worth fighting for. The silence lingers and makes the air heavy, and eventually he meets you eyes again. "I miss you," he admits. "I was terrible, and I'm so sorry. I never meant to hurt you that much. I just didn't want to make things more complicated than they were. I was selfish." All of that is depressingly true, you agree, and you wonder how you can still love him after all of it. "I'm sorry." Now _that's _something you never expected to hear from him.

"I love you," you tell him, "but you knew that already."

He tries not to look hopeful, and fails outstandingly. "Is it enough?" That puppy look makes your heart ache with the truth you have to tell him.

"No, I don't think it is, Scor." You want to tell him sorry, but that would make things more final that you truly want them to be.

He nods and walks away. Goodbyes aren't necessary between the two of you, because you'll always keep coming back. It's an endlessly circle of heartbreak, this thing. It grows and clings like a weed and neither of you will ever really escape it.

You think you might hear him call back, so quietly, that he loves you. But the sound is covered by the click of the door and you tell yourself that you're mistaken.

You're determined to move on, and you do pretty well… until you see him at one of those damn ministry parties. You lock eyes across the room, because really, when you're both in the same space every other person ceases to exist and always has. He crosses to you quickly. "Still love me?" he asks with that hopeful puppy expression on his face.

"Depends," you tell him, and watch his expression flicker to hurt before it goes back to careful blankness. "Do you love me?"

His expression softens. "I always have."

"Then yes." You let him kiss you then and you dare to hope that maybe now, after the heartbreak and pain and loss, things might be okay.

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><p><em><strong>Reviews are love! ~Lynx<strong>_


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